


Omniscience

by sanguineTimekeeper (pyritequeen)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Doc Scratch/Reader - Freeform, Doc Scratch/You, F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyritequeen/pseuds/sanguineTimekeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young clock enthusiast known, for now, only by her chumhandle, finds herself pent up and needy and in slight denial of why with no readily available forms of release. Or so she thinks.</p><p>Turns out her quiet life of collecting and repairing clocks is soon to be turned upside-down, and the illustrious ringleader of a band of green thugs is the one to start the change. It's astonishing how well one can release tension when they know everything about you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omniscience

There’s a woman in her bedroom, looking restless and bored. She’s sitting on her BED with her LAPTOP COMPUTER sitting next to her, but it’s currently closed, as though nothing on the infernal contraption is keeping her attention today.  
  
Maybe you should get to know her. What should we call her?  
  
==>Enter Name  
  
[SASSAFRASS LARGEBUTT]  
  
The woman just stares at you blankly before shaking her head in disappointment.  
  
==>Try again  
  
The woman waves her hand at you in a dismissing manner. Apparently her name is not important to the story.  
  
==>Examine room  
  
You are now the woman in the bedroom. Your name has been deemed IRRELEVANT TO THE STORY. As mentioned, you are sitting on your BED with your traitorously uninteresting LAPTOP beside you. You do have other interests, including INTERNET GAMING, talking to your buddies on the INTERNET, and making videos about your life and the interesting thoughts that cross your mind… that you then post to the INTERNET.  
  
Oh, and collecting CLOCKS. You do like to do that. You have at least 20 CLOCKS in your room at any given moment, and try as you might you are never quite able to synch up all the OBNOXIOUS TICKING. How you have not yet gone mad from the constant offset TICKING in your room is DEBATABLE. But you’re not even going to try right now.  
  
You’ve just been feeling so… _frustrated_ lately. All pent up energy and need. Mostly the need. Like you should get a new HOBBY, more than just fruitlessly attempting to synch up CLOCKS and being on the INTERNET. Maybe playing BILLIARDS with your buddies is something you can pick up. It’s such a WEIRD and MILDLY INFURIATING GAME, with barely-distinguishable-from-each-other colored balls going everywhere on that GREEN FELT, but your friends seem to have fun with it…  
  
**>** [o] Now, now, that’s quite enough of that.  
  
“…Wait, what?”  
  
**>** [o] We can’t have you being bored and restless all day, now can we?  
  
“Who the hell are you? And WHERE are you?!”  
  
**>** [o] You may call me Doctor Scratch, and you will be with me very shortly.  
  
You stand up from your bed and look around, actively looking for the source of this new voice. You consider that the previous statement about your madness may have to be revoked as you take a step forward toward your largest ticking grandfather clock, then stop abruptly. Your vision suddenly fades to… Well, not quite black, but more of a dark green color. A startling flash of neon green later, fuzzy shapes begin to sharpen as your eyes focus again, bringing into relief a shockingly different room than you had previously occupied. As you look around at the Victorian style décor in alarm, you register three things:  
  
1)      it is _extremely_ _green_ here,  
2)      there is a gun in a holster slung over that chair over there,  
3)      you are not alone.  
  
A tall… Man, in a strict sense of the word, dressed in a white suit with a _vibrantly_ green button-down and bow tie stands several paces before you, his arms curled placidly behind his back. Your slightly slack-jawed reflection shines dimly back at you in the white orb he has for a head, his skin blending perfectly with the suit he wore. You close your mouth and swallow, somewhere between outright terror and excitement, as the man speaks.  
  
“Welcome to my apartment. I am quite pleased to have the opportunity to meet you before my associates do. Of course, the joy of having opportunities is somewhat lessened when you create them yourself, but that does not diminish the sentiment.” You have the strangest feeling that he would be smiling knowingly if he had the capability to do so. “I believe you will find that I am quite an… exemplary host. You will not find your time wasted here.”  
  
His voice reverberates around in your head like a buzzing but pleasant thought you can’t quite keep yourself from thinking. It’s hard to tell whether he’s actually speaking in any conventional meaning of the word or if his voice is merely appearing in your head via his will, humming elegantly directly into your brain. Your heart is hammering fast in your chest from adrenaline, having suddenly appeared against your will in a strange place with a strange being, and yet you can sense no particular threat about the situation. It was very matter-of-fact and almost pleasant, as if you are visiting an old friend.  
  
”Where _is_ here…?” you ask the simplest of the many questions on your mind, daring to glance away from the man who had called himself Doctor Scratch and glance around once more at the green, green, and more green you are surrounded by. You pause briefly with your eyes on the arches over the hallways; they’re as round as Scratch’s head. It’s like you’ve been dropped into a house that an unusually tall Victorian Hobbit who took offense to any non-green color designed. You are however pleased to find at least two handsome clocks in this place, their ticking comforting in their perfect synchronicity.  “And why am _I_ here?”  
  
“You are in my apartment,” he repeats patiently, his voice ringing in your head and sending odd shivers down your spine. “And you are here because you need to be.”  
  
“…What.”  
  
There’s a slight pause, and then Scratch chuckles, a melodic sort of thing that echoes around your head lightly and almost leaves you feeling dizzy. He motions with one hand to one of the many, many pieces of furniture in the room, an old Victorian sofa. “Please, sit down and make yourself at home. I will explain as much as you need to know.”  
  
That sounds suspiciously like a way to get out of not telling you everything, but you sit anyway, surprised at how comfortable the couch really is. You watch as Scratch crosses the room slowly, striding in a contemplative sort of way, and decide to ask another question since he appears to be unwilling to expand on what you have already asked.  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
“As I said, you may call me Doctor Scratch.”  
  
You sigh. “Alright, Doc, I know your name, let’s try this again; who are you _to me_?”  
  
“Ah, a much more straightforward question.” comes his reply, amusement evident in his voice as he stops his striding, standing next to a strange looking globe that is most definitely not of Earth. “Allow me to phrase it this way; you have a very interesting future ahead of you dealing with associates of mine. You may end up seeing more of me than you ever wanted to.”  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
Your pulse quickens as Scratch chuckles again. You’re beginning to think his voice is doing a number on not just your aural sense but possibly some other senses as well. You can practically _taste_ how smooth and charming his voice is, something nondescriptly sweet and spicy all at once.  
  
“My dear,” he begins, “I am both omniscient and near omnipotent. I exist on a continuum you could not hope to grasp just yet, though you will in the future. For now, though, know that I am not quite your enemy, though perhaps not quite your friend, and I am here to help you.”  
  
You’re finding this a little hard to swallow, but you play along. What else is there to do? “So you’re an alien. Or a God.”

  
“Of a sort.” he does not specify which of your suggestions he is agreeing with. You feel as though the room has suddenly become much warmer as you watch him remove his suit jacket and hang it gently on the strange-looking globe. His suspenders are unsurprisingly green and blend in much better with the dark-shaded surroundings of the room than the neon of his shirt.  
  
“Allow me to preempt your next question.” Scratch states, striding again toward you with his hands clasped behind his back once more. He stands out from the dark green room slightly less now with his white jacket off, and yet your eyes are drawn to him even more than before, the vibrant green of his shirt almost hypnotic.  
  
“Being omniscient, I do happen to know a few details about you. More than a few, really. My favorite happen to be some of the more, hm…” he pauses as though looking for the right word, despite the fact that the both of you know full well he knows exactly what word he wants to use already, “ _suggestive_ ones.”  
  
You feel your face flush, wondering if his knowledge extends to the thoughts being brought to the fore of your mind the longer you look at the man before you. You say nothing, however, and he continues.  
  
“You’ve been quite restive of late.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Unable to concentrate on anything at all. I believe I can fix that. And by believe, I of course mean I am quite certain I can, and _will_.”  
  
“Ahhh…” you say uncertainly, unsure of whether it’s physically possible for you to blush any more than you are right now. The gentle emphasis he had put on his last word had surely diverted some blood from your face, as you can very suddenly feel your pulse between your legs, clouding your thoughts from any suspicion of Scratch and merely filling them with acts that mostly include you removing his stupid bow tie with your teeth.  
  
“My bow tie positively completes my suit; do not attempt to deny it.”  
  
The pure _arrogance_ in his words almost overshadows the raging embarrassment you have at the frank confirmation of his knowledge of your thoughts – possibly before you even have them. While you fidget in your seat and muster up the courage to reply, Scratch sits next to you, near enough to cause your racing thoughts more problems but infuriatingly too far away to casually touch. Finally you turn to look him in the eye, or at least where he would have eyes if he had a normal face, and speak with equal measures of dignity and defiance.  
  
“So I have been a little restless lately. I just need to get out more, that’s all. …Have new people about. Do… uh… thiiiings… with them. ” Or at least you had _started_ to speak with dignity and defiance, your voice faltering the longer you look at him. This isn’t going the way you had planned. You stare at his relaxed pose with one arm folded on the back of the couch and he says nothing, merely waiting for you to finish what you already started. After a moment, you do so, the words spilling out of your mouth before you can stop them. “Alright, _fine_ , I need to get laid. I need it _really really badly_. You think you’re going to be the one to do it?”  
  
“Is that to say you have an itch…” you can practically _hear_ the smirk he’d have on his lips if he had a mouth to smirk with, “…that needs Scratching?”  
  
You can’t decide whether to groan at the atrocious pun or laugh at it. Shaking your head with a grin slowly spreading across your face, it ends up being more the latter. “You are so arrogant it’s hilarious.” And… kind of hot. Okay, _really_ hot. “Why should I agree to anything?”  
  
“Do you deny that you’re interested?”  
  
You stare at him, frowning slightly. Color rises to your skin once more as your eyes drift across his body once before flicking back upwards. Thoughts float through your mind of electric touches and clothes being shed and the way his voice makes you quiver as it slides through your senses. “….No. I’m interested. Just curious what makes you think you’re so qualified.”  
  
He makes a series of soft tutting noises that cause the hair on the back of your neck to stand on end. “Just think. Who is better suited for the job? I already know nearly everything there is to know about you. Your likes and dislikes, desires and worries, wishes and soft spots. I know _exactly_ what to do to make you tremble and beg for more if I were so inclined. I know how to have you breathless with nothing more than a touch. For instance, if I were to…”  
  
He slowly strokes one long white finger down the muscle in your neck that runs from ear to collarbone, causing a shiver to course through your body. You inhale sharply as his finger continues traveling just a little further down your sternum and into your shirt before leaving your skin abruptly, and his voice hums jauntily and just a little haughtily in your head: “Yes, I knew you’d enjoy that. I know just how much you’re going to enjoy _every_ thing. And that’s just to start; I have many pleasurable things planned for you.”  
  
“…O-okay,” you say, voice rather higher than usual out of surprise and arousal. “You’ve convinced me.” You turn on the couch to face him properly, your leg bent in front of you and head held high in a sort of challenge. “Show me what you’re made of.”  
  
He simply repeats the motion and contact he had already made on the other side of your neck and you have to bite your lip to keep from whining. You open your eyes once you realize you had closed them and glare at him in a mixture of bravado and desire, wondering if you’re going to have to get specific again. Before you have the chance to figure your wording out, however, he’s holding your chin lightly with his fingertips and speaking.  
  
“What would you like the most right now, my dear?”  
  
“You ask that as though you don’t already know.”  
  
“I am merely being _polite_ …”  
  
You manage to either ignore or maybe rather enjoy the impudence in his voice at this, watching as his hands move to his collar to undo his dark green bow tie. Your eyes dance across his skin as the tie falls away and the first button on his shirt is undone, baring his neck and the top of his chest to you. Another button down and you’re having to restrain yourself from pouncing on him. His movements get agonizingly slower as he moves to the third button and you can’t take it anymore, moving to straddle his lap and replace his hands with yours, finishing the work of unbuttoning his shirt for him. His hands in turn run up your arms, one ending up resting firmly at your shoulder and the other coming to cradle your head in his large palm, fingers threading through your hair.  
  
You lean in to kiss and nibble at his alabaster skin as your hands work to disrobe him, lips working down his neck and across one collarbone, nipping at the junction of bones below his throat just as his last button comes undone. You splay your fingers against the soft flesh of his stomach and run your hands slowly up his body, eager to touch every inch of your strange sexual captor. “Do you like that?” you ask him, playing your hands up over his shoulders below the fabric of his shirt and consequently pushing his suspenders out of place.  
  
He makes a small noise that could be either amusement or pleasure, it’s impossible to tell, before replying. “What’s more important is if _you_ are enjoying yourself,” he says serenely, the hand still cradling the back of your head exerting a small amount of pressure that you yield to without resistance, “but I won’t deny it’s nice.”  
  
He hadn’t really pushed your head in any particular direction, using only enough force to see if you would resist, as if testing your will to defy him. He has something up his sleeve, you can tell dimly, but the fog of the feeling of his skin underneath your palms and the pleasant, mild taste of him on your lips does not allow you to consider what exactly you have gotten yourself into. You run your tongue firmly up his throat before speaking again, absently trying to place what the slightly sweet flavor reminded you of.  
  
“What, not in this for yourself at all? What a shame.”  
  
His fingers close together with your hair between them and he pulls, not enough to hurt but more than enough to forcefully move your head back, far back enough that you’re actually leaning backward against his support by the time he relaxes his grip and spreads his fingers out against your scalp once more. He sits up straight to close the distance he had forced between you and him before speaking.  
  
“Oh but I am,” he says quietly, the sudden change in vocal tone causing your breath to catch, “You would be surprised just how much self-interest I have in this endeavor. However,” the hand on your shoulder moves down your side and curls around your hip, sliding down your outer thigh and coming to rest just above your knee, “that does not stop me from being an _excellent_ host.”  
  
With strength you had most distinctly _not_ expected from the lithe Doc Scratch, the man stands up with you still in his grip, supported almost solely by the hands at your head and knee. You instinctively wrap your legs around his hips and arms around his neck, squeaking at his sudden motion.  
  
“You are a fan of clocks, are you not?” he asks you lightly, and this is such a strange question in light of the circumstances you can do nothing but immediately agree. Without a word, Scratch begins walking, apparently completely unburdened by your presence clinging to his body, which indeed you have done in alarm at his motion. You can’t see where he’s carrying you and you dare not look around for fear of unbalancing, despite the fact that you are actually quite secure in his grip.  
  
You are not kept guessing for long, however, because it only takes him a few long strides to cross the room and suddenly you’re being pressed against a hard, flat, suspiciously ticking surface. You immediately realize he’s got you pinned between himself and the side of the largest grandfather clock in this very verdant room, and your heart skips a beat or two as you finally realize that yes, he really _does_ understand every little minute detail to make you wild for him, and yes, he _will_ exploit as many of those details as possible.  
  
He slides his hand out from behind your head and rests it on your shoulder, curled gently around your neck. At the same time, you gingerly unhook one leg from around his hip and attempt to stand on your own. He obliges this by letting go of your other leg and allowing you to unhook that one too, standing on your feet now, pressed between Scratch and the steadily ticking clock. Both of his hands are at your neck now, not in any way that is threatening but you are nevertheless very aware of their presence, as well as how _very tall_ he is compared to you. As though capitalizing on this realization, his voice buzzes in your head again, coursing through each of your senses like clockwork.  
  
“Now, there’s something you need to understand about this… _I’m_ in control,” he tells you, and just those last three words send a jolt straight to your core that leaves you weak-kneed enough to be glad for his body holding you up against the clock. “You are going to do everything I tell you to and you’re going to love every second of it.”  
  
It’s hard to tell whether this is a command or just him flaunting his omniscience at you again, or _both_ , but either way they are agreeable terms. You nod your head in acquiescence and that appears to be enough for him.  
  
“Good…” he muses, his fingertips beginning to rub small circles on your neck. Your eyes drift shut as he slowly massages his way down to your shoulders, pleasant waves of relaxation washing over you from the points of contact.  
  
Pressed back against the side of the grandfather clock, you can feel every Tick-Tock swing of the pendulum pulse right into your body, and between that and the feel of Scratch’s hands on your skin, it feels like you might just be driven mad with lust by this man. You drift one of your arms down from around Scratch’s neck and grab the edge of the clock behind you as his rubbing hands continue moving downward, his palms cupping the tops of your breasts as his fingertips keep rubbing circles through your shirt. You bite your lip again and barely contain a moan as his hands move further down still, now kneading your breasts, pleasurable jolts of sensation shuddering through you. His hands linger here and your breathing starts becoming rather heavy, eyes shut tight as you focus on the feeling.  
  
All too soon his hands slide away from your breasts but they do not continue their massage downward; instead his palms glide down your sides and come to rest at your hips, fingers dipping into the waistband of your jeans. You open your eyes to look at him but of course all you can see is your own dim, flushed reflection, pressed against the side of a dark green clock and breathing like you just got through running a marathon. You loll your head back against the wood behind you and close your eyes again as his hands move to the front of your pants, slowly and deftly undoing the button and zipper.  
  
With a long slow breath to steady yourself you decide to remove your shirt while he’s getting you out of your jeans, and so in the flurry of fabric around your body you miss that somewhere along the line he had removed his suspenders from over his shoulders and his shirt had become fully untucked. These realizations only come to you once you’re pressed against the clock again, naked this time and thankful for it because it allows for all the more contact with the bared skin of his stomach and chest, almost electrifying.  
  
“I didn’t tell you to remove your shirt,” Scratch says, one of his hands coaxing your leg back up and around his hip whilst the other rubs languid, shallow circles in the flesh just below your breasts. You smirk at him, replacing your arms where they had been before – one hand gripping the clock behind you for support, the other arm up around his neck – and reply.  “You never told me not to, either.”  
  
“ _Insolence_ ,” he coos at you, sounding highly amused at this, as though he hadn’t known you to do such a thing ahead of time. As ever, it’s impossible to tell with him whether that is actually true or if he is just acting. The desire to decide which it was vanishes as his hands begin moving again, switching places, the one on your leg moving up to caress your now bare breast and the other ghosting down your stomach, fingertips brushing lightly against your skin on their way downward.  
  
“Nnnnuh,” your vocalizations are positively inarticulate already and he hasn’t even gotten to the good part yet. He pinches lightly at your nipple as his fingers trace unfamiliar patterns across your lower belly, teasing before moving further downward still, sliding into your folds.  
  
Wild sensations of ecstasy stream through every nerve ending you possess as his fingers find your clit and begin swirling around the sensitive nub with purpose and precision. There’s no possible way for you to stop the ensuing cry of pleasure so you don’t even bother trying, your head thrashing back and hitting the clock behind you with a dull thud that you barely even register, all of your attention focused on one portion of your body. You’re gripping the clock so hard you’re losing the feeling in your fingers, but _your_ fingers aren’t the ones that matter right now, only his and the magic they’re working. He continues his ministrations for some time, occasionally slowing down and occasionally speeding up, never quite settling into a predictable pattern, but always keeping your attention.  
  
You’re positively panting now, every third or fourth breath coming out as a moan or whine of some form, and as his fingers slow for what seems to be the umpteenth time, you can’t keep yourself from pleading. “Oh God, ahhn, damnit, Doc— _please_ ,” you pant at him, eyes glaring through heavy lids at the approximate place where his undoubtedly smugly grinning face would be. “Stop _slowing down_ I can’t take it anymore.”  
  
For the second time, he makes that series of tutting noises that gives you shivers – as if his fingers need the help making you quake. “Oh, my dear, that won’t work on me. You see, in addition to being omniscient, I am also omni _patient_ ; I could keep you like this for _hours_ if I wanted to.”  
  
You whimper in both longing and dread, wanting more and yet looking forward to the ache of prolonged contact. As if to back up his statement, his fingers slow their motions to an almost imperceptible stroking, causing you to squirm against him as you whine, wordlessly still begging for more.  
  
“You are much too eager,” Scratch croons once more at you, sounding positively giddy with how closely and tightly he has you wound. You whine and squirm some more as his fingers leave your favorite little nerve cluster entirely and skim their way up your body, taunting you with how much control he really has over you right now. Impulsively, needily, you let go of the clock behind you and seize his wrist instead, bringing his hand up to your mouth and sliding the fingers that had been pleasuring you inside of it, sucking on them as though nothing else in the world could have made you happier (except, perhaps, for those fingers to go back to where they had previously been).  
  
Scratch allowes this to happen and watches with interest, his other hand leaving your side where it had taken up residence and resting itself against the clock over your head instead. After a few moments, he gently moves the fingers still in your mouth to get your attention, and you pause to look at him questioningly, breathing hard through your nose but not removing his hand.  
  
“I happen to know something else you’d enjoy putting in your mouth even more.”  
  
The blaze in your eyes at his vague yet perfectly clear suggestion had been impressive, as you saw in your own reflection in his orb of a head, but it had been only a brief sight because you are already on your knees before him, reaching up and undoing his slacks. You waste no time in sliding his length out and wrapping your mouth around it, head bobbing slowly as you suck.  
  
Scratch bends his arm and braces himself against the clock with his forearm, his other hand having followed you down and resting atop your head, fingers threading through your hair for a good grip. Distantly, as if he had become very far away all of a sudden, you hear him exhale slowly in the back of your mind, and that merely spurs you onward, running your tongue up the underside of his shaft and in circles around the tip before taking him into your mouth again, hoping to elicit more wonderful little sounds from him.  
  
You can feel the hand on top of your head alternate between tension and relaxation, guiding you subtly as you work. His fingers tighten in your hair any time you should miss one of his delicate instructions and you start to get the sense that he’s getting just as much if not more enjoyment out of controlling your actions as he is from your mouth working on his cock.  
  
Finally his fingers tighten more than they had previously and pull you away from him, a motion which you submit to obediently, hopeful for what may come next. His voice is a bit breathless as he speaks to you, all pretense of gloating and toying about gone from his words.  
  
“Stand up,” he instructs, and you obey, standing almost flush with his body. Your breath puffs across his neck and you manage to get one good kiss in to the soft skin there before he continues. “Come with me,” is all he says before gripping you by the back of the neck and steering you away from the clock, apparently having decided (or known) that it would be more efficient to just lead you physically than expect you to be able to follow him anywhere. Or, perhaps, he just likes it this way better.  
  
You are directed down one of the round-arched hallways and through a shockingly rectangular door, leading into a room equally as green as the one you had just left, about which the only thing you even vaguely care about is the large four-poster bed in the middle of.  
  
He lets go of you as soon as the pair of you are in the room and you do not need to be told to move toward the bed, glancing over your shoulder at him as you move. Somewhere along the line he had shed more clothing, so that the only thing he’s wearing now is his unbuttoned neon green shirt and the untied bow tie still in the collar of said shirt. The fact that he still has these on actually makes him even _more_ appealing to you.  
  
You stop just shy of the mattress and turn to face Scratch, who stops half a pace behind you, holding his hand out as if to take something from the air next to him. In the blink of an eye, his gunbelt hangs from his fingers, the pistol in its holster swinging gently in suspension. It might have occurred to you to be impressed at his ability to make the item appear out of thin air if it wasn’t for the insistent throbbing between your legs and your vague need to be biting or sucking on something. Unlike him, you are not _omnipatient_ and it’s starting to get a little _omnipainful_.  
  
He removes the pistol and places it on the nightstand before turning to you, his height and posture imposing in the best possible way. You have a funny, wonderful, impassioned feeling you know what he is planning to do with that belt, and your suspicions are all but confirmed when he gives his next command:  
  
“Turn around.”  
  
You gaze hungrily at him for a second or two before obeying, turning your back to him and closing your eyes, trying to ignore your heavy breathing and the hammering in your chest so you can focus on any further orders. He gives none, however, preferring to just put you where he wants you, grabbing your wrists and lifting them above your head, using his gunbelt to fasten your hands to the post of the bed. Once tied, you find that while you can’t actually move away from the post, you can at least slide your hands up and down it. Satisfied with your confinement, Scratch resumes his orders, snapping you back to your lovely situation with his level, authoritative voice ringing in your head.  
  
“On the bed.” He commands, “Hands and knees, if you please.”  
  
His voice reverberates low in your skull, as though he were rumbling right next to your ear even though he is not nearly that close to you, and you find it makes it very difficult for you to see straight. Nevertheless, you obey, crawling onto the bed and assuming the closest you could get to the required position owing to your restraints – elbows and knees is close enough – before putting your head down to your arms and waiting.  
  
He ‘hmmmm’s in approval at your position and apparently deems it satisfactory, for he gives no further orders. It is neither dignifying nor particularly comfortable, but your ability to care about either inconvenience has absolutely vanished because Scratch’s hand has returned to its post between your legs and you are doing your damndest to not give him the satisfaction of making you moan and you are _utterly failing at it_. You can’t see him at _all_ from where he’s positioned you so it’s a shock when his other hand comes to rest on the small of your back, swirling large circles to match the small, precise ones he is working around your clit.  
  
His fingers don’t stay at your clit for long though, and if you had been moaning before it’s nothing to the slurry of sounds that begin escaping your throat as his hand moves through your slick folds and one finger slides slowly inside of you and then back out. Another finger joins the first and your breath comes quick and ragged as the motion continues, quick-paced and calculated, perfect and yet not quite enough.  
  
“Uuuunnnh I want you to fuck me _so badly_ ,” you manage to articulate amongst your cries, voice somewhere between a snarl and a whine.  
  
“Such _language_ ,” comes the gleeful reply from Scratch, lightly curling his fingers inside of you as punctuation for his words. You positively _keen_ in reply, pulling fruitlessly against your restraints as your body begins to rebel from the violent waves of pleasure. The gunbelt holds fast and all you can do is shriek with carnal delight as orgasm overcomes you, spurred on both by Scratch’s knowing fingers and his deep chuckling echoing through your head. He has basically become your owner and master in the last hour, and you know it – and more importantly, _he_ knows that you know it.  
  
Your awareness of your surroundings becomes basically null as you pant against your arms, the pure physicality of what had just transpired briefly draining you. Within a few seconds, though, you snap your eyes open, intent to struggle until he gives you _more_ , not satiated just yet.  
  
You quickly find that had been in his plan all along. He’s not through with you yet.  
  
You still can’t see a goddamn thing other than the bedspread beneath you, the green velvet curtain in front of you, and your arms tied to the bedpost, but you can feel his hands on you, adjusting your position to his liking, and you can tell that he’s on the bed with you by the way the mattress dipped. It comes as no surprise to you then when his large white hand comes into your peripheral vision again, as Scratch braces himself over you before slowly sliding himself inside of you, causing you to wail in rapturous glee.  
  
Again you pull and strain at your bindings as you move with him to the best of your ability, unable to cease the flow of sounds from your body between gasping for air, and again in the back of your mind you can hear his heavy breathing too, hear it and taste it and _feel_ it, his strange method of communicating weighing heavily on your mind even through the fog of intercourse.  
  
With all the sensory input you’re receiving it takes very little time at all for you to come for a second time, incoherent screams issuing from your lungs as the powerful sensation overwhelms you. You’re not even aware of Scratch anymore, whether he had reached a similar zenith or whether he is even _capable_ of it, all you can tell is that his body is no longer supporting or even touching yours in any way. This actually suits you just fine, because the next thing you do is collapse to the mattress out of _unadulterated exhaustion_.  
  
Breathing deeply and contentedly, your eyes fall closed against your arms. Dimly, you can tell Scratch is untying your wrists from the bedpost, but that’s the last thing you notice, a powerful sleepiness that isn’t entirely related to your cavorting overcoming you.  
  
The next thing you know, you’re blearily opening your eyes to a suspiciously horizontal view of the feet of one of your three grandfather clocks. You are laying on the floor of your bedroom, face pressed into the carpet. You groan, sitting up weakly and trying to clear your head. Was that… A dream? Had you just unceremoniously _fallen asleep_ in the middle of your room and dreamed of…  
  
You sigh and close your eyes, focusing on the content little burn settling low in your belly and the lazy sort of strength slowly returning to your limbs. If it had been a dream, it was a doozy of one in the best possible way.  
  
Opening your eyes and looking around just to make sure of your surroundings, you find a small piece of stark white paper on your desk that had distinctly not been there before you had your little nap. Frowning, you pick it up and turn it over, but it’s just as white and blank on this side as it was on the other. You bite your lip and hesitate, but finally give into your instinct and hold it up to your lamp, peering at the light filtering through. You aren’t nearly as surprised as you ought to be when you see five written words shining through in elegant, refined lettering:  
  


Until we meet again. –Doc


End file.
